I know there seems to be a little bit of tongue-in-cheekness about this new blog site of mine – you may have picked up the link of the song first-liners already – but it’s actually probably not going to be as comical and cliche as first impressions may suggest.
Last October, 2013, my 12-year-old son physically assaulted me for the first time. It wasn’t the worst assault that could have happened: he kicked me, hard, in the back, as I lay in my bed trying to ignore one of his increasingly frequent tantrums. It probably shocked him as much as it did me, and I received a very apologetic text (a sign of the communicative times) from him soon after.
Ordinarily, I may have been tempted to see this as a shocking event; and, at the time, it was. But looking back, 15 months later, with a deluge of water having smashed its way beneath the bridge since then, it is evident that that kick was not the beginning of an unforeseen problem. This storm had been brewing for several years, perhaps many, if I am to read the hindseen signals correctly. The physical assault in October was merely another road taken on a route already being travelled. It was the opening of another chapter in our story, rather than a unique event without warning.
I thought about how to approach this blog. I could, as many do, present a day-to-day observation of events as they happen, and my thoughts that accompany them. There is little wrong with this approach, and if I could turn the clock back, it may have been a cathartic and helpful experience. But my story is way beyond the opening narrative. And look as I might, there are few similar tales being told. Myfamilymyvillage is one struggling mother who uses her blog this way, but she is currently immersed in the helplessness of trying to understand and help her eight-year-old son, and her absolute desperation stings with every post because she is completely in the moment.
I, on the other hand, would, to onlookers at least, appear to be through the most difficult stages of my story, in that my son is currently not living with me. Those that needed to intervene have indeed intervened, although I would suggest that this intervention was not only too little too late, but in fact, they have caused more harm than good. My son’s absence has not been a relief in any way at all. I may not be subject to the pain of physical assaults, but the pain I feel in my heart, my head and my soul hurts as much as any kick or punch or solid object he could have thrown at me.
So, I will approach this blog in more literary way, because this is a story that does follow the distinct stages of any halfway-decent novel. And I’m quite sure that, as with all the best-laid plans, I will stray from my intended path and throw in various reflections, events as they occur, 20-20 hindsights, and probably a bit of helpful research as I discover it.
Despite the absolute dearth of information about Conduct Disorder and/or related behavioural issues, I believe there are many more parents who suffer silently with abuse and violence at the hands of their own children.
This is my story.